


Below and Beyond the Call of Duty

by KellerProcess



Series: Beelzefic [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Demon Politics, I don't think any trigger warnings apply to this, Other, beelzebub uses she/her pronouns, dagon uses she/her pronouns, oops I accidentally prompted myself!, the real reason why the 1980s sucked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-14 23:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20609381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: Pleased with Beelzebub's work in ensuring that the 1980s will be a decade of greed and pain, Satan creates a new honor for the prince of hell.He thinks he's manipulating her.He is very, very wrong.





	Below and Beyond the Call of Duty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mx_vertiginous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mx_vertiginous/gifts).

**Below and Beyond the Call of Duty**

Beelzebub’s reign as prince of hell had lasted well over seven thousand years for more reasons than any demon could count. She wasn’t Satan’s left-hand demon just because no one else wanted the responsibility, or just because she was one of the most ruthless of the Fallen. It wasn’t really because all of hell’s denizens feared her—though, of course, a little fear stirred in with respect never hurt one’s political career.

She was and remained hell’s de-facto ruler because she had something most demons lacked: genius.

Few demons, of course, can be accused of having imagination—at least the sustained and sustainable kind. But the kind of genius Beelzebub possessed was not the imaginative but the intuitive. Unique among demons, she was particularly attuned to human frailties and the way those frailties played out in every interaction, from the personal, to the communal, to the national, to the global. For just as clothing, food, and art fluctuated in and out of style, so did sin; and Beelzebub’s ability to predict what sin would come into fashion, and how and when it would damage the humans who engendered it, was something her subjects looked upon with awe.

Satan was loath to admit it, but Beelzebub had a lot to be proud about, particularly on this historic occasion.

And that made her not only a genius, but a dangerous potential foe.

Pride was a dangerous thing. He knew that far better than any being in creation. It was also the most delicate of sins—one that had to be handled like any tincture. Administer too little and a demon would fall into despair and dysfunction; too much and they would fancy themselves his equal—or his superior.

But give them just enough, and they would remain both confident and servile.

The equation with Beelzebub was particularly delicate, but Satan was confident he had figured it out.

That was the primary reason he had arranged this ceremony.

Today, Beelzebub had temporarily vacated her throne in head office’s Great Hall to accommodate hell’s actual ruler. As Satan rose from the seat of power, hell’s armies stood at attention—well, at least to the best of their abilities. No one had ever accused demons of being orderly.

Beelzebub, however, pulled the stance off flawlessly. Even her flies were still upon her shoulders.

He expected nothing less.

“Attend us.” The king of hell hardly ever needed to raise his voice; his legions knew better than to require him to repeat himself. And sure enough, all idle whispering ceased.

“Prince Beelzebub,” he said, “we have called our forces here today to witness an extraordinary event: the creation of a new title. You alone among demonkind have earned every dishonor we can award: the inverted cross, the fallen star, the brimstone heart. Yet your efforts in this year alone have hastened the apocalypse and struck a decisive blow against our enemies.

“You alone have predicted the political fortunes of two of the most powerful nations on earth—indeed, you were the first to notice how deeply they were intertwined.”

This was the first step: engender envy in her subordinates. Again, the balance was a most delicate one: give them just enough envy for her to see what he was doing; to let her know that as much as her subjects respected her, at any moment, that respect could turn into invidious rebellion.

“The politics of humans are ever capricious, but you alone understand the nature of that capriciousness; the way the pendulum swings from left to right, from advancement to regression. Who but you could have stirred up enough religious hypocrisy and political malaise to see an actor elected president? And an equally iron-willed British counterpart?”

That was the next step: wrath. Use big words his legions had little care to understand, to anger them at having to listen to this prattle—and stoke envy’s green flames even more.

“Reagan and Thatcher; they will be the beginning of the end.”

With that, he stepped down from the dais on which the throne sat. When he reached the floor, he held out his left hand; in his palm, two tarnished medals glinted in hell’s half-light.

“For services below and beyond the call of duty, is our dishonor to present you, Prince Beelzebub, with the double crown of disgrace.”

Beelzebub stood straight-backed and unblinking as he pinned the medals to her lapels.

And here was the final step.

“You are dismissed,” he told the legions. Glad, most likely, not to be forced to endure more ceremony, they left quickly—not fast enough to seem rebellious, but not too slow.

When he was alone with the prince, Satan placed a hand upon her shoulder. Though they were alone now, he leaned in to whisper.

“You know you have done well, Beelzebub. But consider: you could do better still.”

Gluttony.

The only sin Beelzebub could not see, for she embodied it.

It would ever be the chain about her neck.

Hang more and more medals upon it, and the weight of the excess would keep her tethered.

“Yes, Your Travesty.”

“I’m glad that you agree.”

With a pat upon her shoulder, he left her to return to the ninth circle.

The traitors would not feast upon themselves.

***

Beelzebub waited until she could be sure the king of hell hadn’t lingered to test her loyalty. But of course he had no reason to.

For six thousand years, she’d played into his every move.  
  
“Did you hear all of that?” she asked one of the arrases.

The rotting tapestry rippled and Dagon stepped from behind it.

“Every word,” she murmured. Her eyes glowed in the gloom; ghost-bright and beautiful.

“Hmm, and what do you think?” Beelzebub asked as her flies shook themselves from their stupor; they circled her head again in the pattern of a broken halo.

“That you’re right, of course.” Dagon neared her. “He underestimates you; that’s his problem, isn’t it? Just because we followed him, he thinks we’re followers.”

Beelzebub nodded. “Strategy izzz not his strong suit. Nor subtlety.”

Dagon stroked the burns along her cheek. “That’s why he follows your lead now.”

“Perceptive,” Beelzebub hummed as she leaned in to kiss her. “That’s why I like you.”

Dagon tasted like saltwater; like the depths of things.

“Well,” Dagon said when they emerged, pressing her forehead to Beelzebub’s as the prince’s flies encircled them. “What’s next?”

“Oh, we continue,” Beelzebub wrapped her hand around Dagon’s. “I enjoy his rewards and his praise—for now. It makezzz them respect me—and fear me. And when I’m tired of him, they will rezzpect and fear me more when I put an end to him.”

“Snuff him out,” Dagon murmured with a smile before she kissed her prince again. “Oh, I do like you.”

“And I like you.” Beelzebub raised her lover’s hand to her lips and kissed the knuckles. “Hm,” she said as she brought the other demon’s fingers to her left lapel. “A dishonor for going below and beyond the call of duty.”

She looked into Dagon’s eyes and felt her own burn red.

“He’s yet to see just how low and far I’ll go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here's how this fic came about:
> 
> * I reblogged a Beelzebub photoset from the official companion book.
> 
> * A friend noticed that she wasn't wearing the pins on her lapels in the 1970s.
> 
> * I wondered why this could be.
> 
> * My politics-weary brain immediately said, "She was responsible for Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher getting elected."
> 
> * And then it was eight p.m. and I wondered what the hell I'd done with the evening.


End file.
